


Scheherazade

by stardust_in_the_wind



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a sad ending, I'm so sorry, Inspired by Richard Siken, M/M, TMA S5, in the style of jon's edgy vent poetry, me? writing fic based on poetry? again? it's more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24381787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_in_the_wind/pseuds/stardust_in_the_wind
Summary: Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies from the lakeand dress them in warm clothes again.How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses runninguntil they forget that they are horses.It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the dayswere bright red, and every time we kissed there was another appleto slice into pieces.Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that meanswe’re inconsolable.Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.These, our bodies, possessed by light.Tell me we’ll never get used to it.~Richard Siken
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 11





	Scheherazade

_Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies from the lake_

_and dress them in warm clothes again._

Words are powerful. They create and raze whole worlds, inspire the very extremes of feeling, hurt more than any weapon. They _communicate_ ; our basest instinct, even as babies, to cry out _I am here, and I am hurting._ They force us to feel one another’s pain. They shape reality. 

Words are powerful, and they brought the Entities into this world. 

Words are powerful, and therefore so is Jon, feeling the unadulterated _fear_ of every unfortunate soul suffering through the Entities’ games without so much as a “ **Tell me**.” They can’t give him words, not anymore, but they don’t need to. All that matters is their intent, where the power lies. The phrasing is merely pretty packaging. 

Words are powerful, but not powerful enough. They can’t reverse the end of everything, can’t save the victims of a senselessly raging war or heal those with iridescent mold creeping across their skin. Some dreams are doomed to remain as such. 

_How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running_

_until they forget that they are horses._

The Ceaseless Watcher does not condone lies. 

The Ceaseless Watcher does not condone omissions. 

The Ceaseless Watcher must Know every last horrifying detail of the Stranger’s gruesome carousel, those on it running and fighting and clawing and ripping at skin, falling on each new face like vultures, desperately hoping for some kind of answer to that burning question _What am I?_

_It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,_

_it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,_

The fear ensconces itself in the parts of their hearts even they can’t reach and digs in, deeper, deeper, until it becomes them. They forget love, they forget hope, they forget how it feels to laugh about something of no consequence or sing along to whatever’s playing on the car stereo without giving a damn how it sounds. All they know is fear. 

The fear does not end, cannot end, cannot even give way to numbness. The screams all blend together, a never-ending siren, but no police are coming. The distress call shrieks on and on and on. No one answers. 

_how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days_

_were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple_

_to slice into pieces._

The only purpose of the moments of relief, those brief feelings of something warm and comforting, is to make the suffering that much worse, but Jon treasures them anyway. 

_Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means_

_we’re inconsolable._

There is no sun, but there is light, weak and sickly, just enough to See by. There is no time, no night or day, just that same insipid glow as the Ceaseless Watcher stares down from its pedestal. 

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._

_These, our bodies, possessed by light._

To Martin’s credit, his hand shakes as he lights the match. 

_Tell me we’ll never get used to it._

The Archives burn, and the Archivist burns with them.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! come say hi in the comments


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